


there's two sides to life (what's yours?)

by RationallyParanoid



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Blood and Injury, Eventual Romance, Gen, Gore, Rating will change, Shuuhei deserves nice things, Slow Burn, Variant Zombies, Violence, Zombies, but we gotta get through some bs first... sorry dude, it's the end of the world and Kensei still finds time to cook, this story takes place over several years yo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:34:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23486893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RationallyParanoid/pseuds/RationallyParanoid
Summary: He's on a supply run in the 76th district of east Rukon when the wind picks up and deposits the sickening tang of oncoming death into his nostrils. Kensei freezes, hand partly extended towards several dented cans of sardines. His eyes trace over filthy windows and a shattered glass door, and spot a stumbling shape just outside on the pavement.Kensei Muguruma is surviving to the best of his ability, given his situation. He keeps quiet. He stays cautious. He doesn't makemistakes. Mostly. But a chance encounter with an armed and terrified teenager might end up becoming the biggest mistake of his entire life. He always knew his bleeding heart would get him into trouble.
Relationships: Hisagi Shuuhei & Muguruma Kensei
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	there's two sides to life (what's yours?)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm dyslexic and vision impaired - I apologise for any glaring grammatical errors! Anyway, the anime is coming back so I figured it was time to get it together and actually start posting stuff. I've got no idea when the next chapter(s) will be posted, just know that I _am_ working on them.

He's on a supply run in the 76th district of east Rukon when the wind picks up and deposits the sickening tang of oncoming death into his nostrils. Kensei freezes, hand partly extended towards several dented cans of sardines. His eyes trace over filthy windows and a shattered glass door, and spot a stumbling shape just outside on the pavement. The corner store he's spent the last ten minutes picking through like a ravenous bird was blessedly empty of all life and death when he first arrived. He'd scoped the joint out for over half an hour before stepping inside, just to be safe. But things don't stay safe for long, and Kensei quietly curses his complacency. Complacency is what got you killed in the line of duty. Complacency is what got you killed in the undead apocalypse.

The shape outside shifts, and Kensei hears the huffing gurgle of it trying to sniff out potential prey. Quickly and quietly, he ducks behind the smashed-to-pieces counter advertising raspberry cola, reaches for his pistol, thinks better of it, and instead slips his favourite trench knife out of its sheath at his hip. And then he waits. He _listens_. Hopefully it didn't see or hear him move. They're attracted to movement and sound, and to a lesser extent, smell. Kensei's seen a herd of them descend upon a shredded, bloodied bed-sheet simply because the wind blew it down an alley like a demented ghost in a student-made horror film. He hears the clumsy shuffle of feet dragging across the pavement, the rattle of a hand hitting a glass window. Kensei sends a silent, caustic stream of expletives to whatever god or entity is listening when a low, wheezing groan echoes through the decrepit building. It's inside the store with him. _Fucking fantastic._

Kensei holds his position – and his frayed-to-all-hell nerves – when a body that should _not_ be moving trips on fractured wood and broken glass and tumbles into the counter he's hiding behind, entrails slapping against the plastic panelling like wilted whips. He hears its jaws snap; can smell the rot and disease of its mouth. Kensei knows what those jaws and teeth can do. A single bite has turned thousands, possibly millions, into slavering, mindless walking corpses with an insatiable hunger for flesh. In most cases, it was kinder – _and pragmatic_ , his mind adds – to mercy kill an infected individual before they had a chance to turn. A cruel but necessary nicety. His thoughts are interrupted by a horrid, leathery stretching noise - of decaying skin twisting in ways it never should - as the corpse stands up again. It's on the move, and, as he listens, he can tell it's heading away from him. It's the first bit of luck he's had the entire trip – besides the cans of sardines. He waits several heart-pounding seconds before he chances a very daring (very foolish) peek out from behind his hiding spot.

The woman standing at the end of the counter would have been beautiful in another life. Kensei knows little about fashion (he likes his fatigues just fine, thank you very much, Rose), but he can tell the clothes and jewellery she wears are designer despite the layers of grime, old blood, and curling intestines that sully them. Her outfit is probably worth more than the yearly salary he no longer earns. She hasn't noticed him – something that Kensei is eternally thankful for – and she offers little resistance when Kensei pops out from behind the counter, grabs her matted brown hair to hold her steady, and rams the blade of his trench knife right through the back of her skull. She jerks once with a rattling hiss, and then crumples backwards into Kensei's waiting arms.

“Oh dear gods and _fuck it all_!” The smell of death hits Kensei like a brick hitting a speeding car. His eyes sting with the stench of it. He gags, and the meagre meal he wolfed down three hours ago threatens to introduce itself violently to the counter top. He drops the corpse to the floor as quietly as he can muster, takes two large steps back to hide behind the shelving, and exhales long and heavy through his teeth. He needs to catch his breath. He needs fresh air. But he knows he can't relax. Not yet. There could be more. There's _always more_.

Kensei dodges behind the counter again, keeping the wall to his back, and trails his eyes over the entrance and windows. It's late afternoon, and the shadows of buildings and electrical poles cut exaggerated blocks of darkness across the pavement and street, like a goth version of _Tetris_. If he stays here much longer, he'll have to brave the Rukon slums at night. Dodging the walking dead is hard enough during the day when they're decently easy to spot, and whilst Kensei has plenty of experience scouting, ambushing, and dodging _intelligent_ enemies in darkness, he likes to avoid travelling by night whenever possible. The seconds tick by into minutes. Kensei waits a solid ten before he risks moving again. He hasn't seen or heard anything on the streets. He skulks closer to the shop entrance, entire body strung tight and ready to bolt for his life.

He finds nothing. The streets are full of shivering trash, condemned vehicles, flourishing weeds, and old bloodstains. They're exactly as they had been before he stepped inside the store. He does another thorough scan of the area, because he's not about to be caught out twice in one day like an idiot. Again, nothing. Sighing, Kensei goes to locate the cans of sardines he found earlier, before he was rudely interrupted with yet another near-death experience. He shoves them into his pack, irritation clouding his face when he remembers the cans are the only viable food rations he's found during this trip. The others will be happy he's found something either way, but Kensei feels the insistent prickle of failure begin to dig jagged little talons into his brain. With each supply run, it's becoming a little more difficult to find resources. The higher districts have been picked almost entirely clean, and the few places that Kensei hasn't been able to get to are surrounded by infected. It may very well be time to start scavenging in the lower districts, closer to Seireitei's city centre.

It's a prospect that Kensei dreads.

* * *

It's nearing dusk when he hauls himself up a busted fire escape and onto the wooden decking of the safe house terrace. The three-storey brick building had once advertised itself as a set of luxury apartments – something that Kensei firmly believes is the stupidest thing he's ever seen in the Rukon slums. Now, the building is as derelict as all the others it's shoved up against. It's the only place within the 76th district that Kensei trusts as safe. One week prior, he, Shinji, Love, Lisa, and Hiyori had purged the joint from top to bottom. It'd held a dozen or so infected; each of them snapping and snarling from behind their apartment doors. They'd put them all out of their misery with an efficiency that had made Kensei long for his days back in the military; all quick, brutal efficiency. After removing the bodies, they'd proceeded to barricade the entire building from the inside out, putting extra emphasis on the rooftop terrace.

The terrace itself isn't much to look at. The wooden deck is in dire need of varnish. The hot-tub is full of brackish, mosquito-laced water. The garden beds are barren, except for the one in the far right corner which is currently home to a positively thriving tomato vine. All the outdoor furniture has been stacked against the single door entrance, save for a picnic table and bench that's bolted into the decking. Tucked behind dying grape-vine trellises and a stone water-feature partition is a recessed tiled courtyard, and it is this section of the terrace that Kensei heads towards. The courtyard houses a rusted fire pit, and a semi-circle of brick day lounges decorated with musty, sun-bleached cushions. A large canvas canopy covers half of the seating, offering a pitiful attempt at shelter. Kensei's not going to complain. It's not going to rain, and at least he's not sleeping in a maggot infested dumpster.

Kensei drops into one of the lounges, stretches out his legs, and takes a moment to ease the tension from his neck and shoulders. He hadn't been planning to stay so far out in this district, but with the day's offerings of _fuck-all-nothing_ , he'd been forced to spend more time moving from place to place over actually scavenging. The others won't worry if he doesn't return tonight. Kensei had let them know he'd be gone for a few days. And he's the most capable of them, with his military background and penchant for extreme survivalist camping. Huffing, he pulls off his pack and sifts through the things he's found: six cans of sardines, a small tin of home-brand instant coffee, a half-empty box of matches, a roll of electrical tape, a pack of triple A batteries, and, the best find, a mostly untouched first-aid kit. Not much in the way of rations, but better than nothing, he reasons. It's a mantra that's becoming increasingly familiar, and not in a good way.

A chilled breeze slices through the gaps in the grape-vines, and Kensei shivers. The nights are still balmy, but the winds are getting icy, unforgiving, signalling autumn's close approach, so he busies himself with making a small fire. Normally he wouldn't risk lighting one – the infected are attracted to light and fire, moths to flames and all – but Kensei's up three levels and hidden behind multiple partitions and trellises. Also, he can't cook the rice he brought along without boiling water. He gets the fire going easily enough, and soon the little courtyard is a hive of warmth. Kensei sets up his battered and much-loved camping stove, measures out rice and water, and waits for the coals and ash to glow molten hot. He'll dine on fresh rice, and vine ripened tomatoes – the saddest king's meal in all the land.

He's admiring the deep pinks and oranges of the sunset when the ringing clatter of metal hitting bricks reaches his ears. Kensei immediately drops low and draws his pistol, and scurries for cover behind the stone water-feature. The sound came from down to his right, on the other side of the apartment block, in the little alley where the fire escape is. There's a rattle of chain-link shifting, and a gasping cough. Yep, definitely in the alley. Kensei's footsteps are ghostly as he inches towards the fire escape, ears and eyes on high alert. He adjusts his grip on his pistol, and peers over the edge of the terrace. The alley below is a gradient of deep yellow-orange light that fades into a void of inky darkness. Kensei catalogues everything: trashed fire escape, open dumpster with rotting vermin carcasses, chain-link divider, garbage pile, green _Subaru_ , with flat tyres and _Pikachu_ decals... infected! Kensei's eyes snap to the figure. It's not a walking corpse though, he quickly realises. The movements are too controlled, too careful. The skin Kensei can see isn't rotting. It's a person, a _child_.

The kid's starving thin – all ribs and tendons – with a mane of spiky dark hair that falls haphazardly over his face. He's drowning in a faded black t-shirt with more holes than fabric, and he grips it close to his chest as if he's expecting someone to rip it off him at any moment. The fraying jeans on his hips are held up with a knotted belt. His feet are a complete mess; blistered and so cut to shreds it's a miracle he can walk at all. He's panting and sweat drenched like he's been running for a day and a night (explains his feet), and the frozen dread on his face is something Kensei's seen only during his time in the military; reflected in the wide pleading eyes of war orphans the world over. The kid looks impossibly small and scared, and so very tired, and Kensei's heart clenches just a tiny bit with the need to protect, to shelter, but he stays hidden. The kid might not be as helpless and alone as he appears.

He throws all thoughts of caution completely out the metaphorical window when a pale blur lurches into the alley from the opposite side of the apartment block. It's a man; tall and wide, and built like a linebacker. There's what looks like an honest-to-gods spear in his back, the pole snapped partly off and splintered. Hunting arrows and hooks poke out of his arms, and there's barbed wire coiled around his chest as if he's run right through a fence like a gods-damned cartoon character. There's a handsaw clenched in his left fist. He's practically nude, save for the bloody rags tied at his waist. His face is painted bone white, splattered with guts and filth, and Kensei feels all the blood in his veins freeze. It's a _hollow_.

Ninety-nine percent of infected bites result in the following symptoms: fever, vomiting, extreme paranoia, muscle spasms, loss of consciousness, and brain haemorrhaging. These are all swiftly followed by death. Several hours later, reanimation occurs, and another walking corpse is added to the herds that now roam the world. But the one percent that manage to survive the bleeding? They become something far worse. Hollow men; still-living creatures, numb to pain and fear, with the very same drive to tear and consume as an infected, with an eerie semblance of human cunning to guide them. They're depraved, psychotic monsters, apt at hunting and torturing, and the few Kensei's come across have the disturbing habit of mutilating themselves and painting their faces white. Lisa once called them an amalgamation of a Viking berserker and a war-boy from _Mad Max_. He wasn't expecting to encounter one so far out in the slums – the majority of them are found in and around Seireitei's city centre, where prey is more plentiful.

The hollow snickers when it spots the kid, the sound loud and disturbing in the silence of the alley. It raises its handsaw and waves dementedly, and runs the teeth of the saw across its shoulder, drawing blood, like it's scratching an itch. A resigned, choked whimper leaves the kid's lips, breath rushing out like a wave. He plants his feet, steeling himself. He pulls a kitchen knife from the back pocket of his jeans. His hands shake, but his grip is firm. He's done this before.

“C'mon,” he hisses, voice cracking a few octaves. “C'mon, you sack of _shit_!” The hollow cackles hyena-mad and barrels towards him, handsaw swinging. The kid's quick on his feet, but he's exhausted. He dodges the first strike, and the second, but cops a glancing blow to the chin from a passing elbow. He stumbles, knife slashing wide across the hollow's face. Blood scatters, exciting it. It charges him, bellowing nonsense. It knocks the kid clean off his feet, slamming him into the alley pavement. Kensei hears the whoosh of air escaping the kid's lungs; he's winded, vulnerable. The hollow coos, mouth bubbling blood-tinged foam. It rips the spear from its back, and then its on the kid, stabbing down. The kid blocks, slapping it away from his chest, but the point drives deep into his right arm. The shriek of terrified pain that rips from his throat is what spurs Kensei to action. He's not going to watch a child get torn apart and devoured, consequences and personal survival be damned. He clatters down the fire escape to the first floor platform, the metal whining and protesting as he goes. He lines up his pistol, steadies his grip and posture, takes a breath, and barks “Hey!” at the top of his lungs.

The hollow's creepy face swivels at the shout. Its wild, blood weeping eyes land on Kensei. It opens its mouth and snarls, wrenching the spear from the kid's arm, and goes to throw it. Kensei fires. The shot is clean and precise, and the loudest thing he's heard in nearly a month. The left side of the hollow's forehead erupts in a shower of red, meaty mist. Its jaw goes slack. Its eyes droop. A dumb wheeze gurgles from its throat. The kid flinches nearly off the ground at the sound of the gunshot, but he spots the opening. He brings up his knife, plunges it right through the hollow's skull, and _twists_. There's an awful wet cracking sound, like fresh eggs hitting gravel. The hollow's body twitches, and then collapses on top of the kid, heavy and dead.

The slums are still once again. Kensei's ears are ringing with the echo of the gun, piercing and shrill. He can barely make out the kid's terrified breathing; the huge, shuddering gasps for air, for control over the rising panic and fading adrenaline. The kid's eyes meet his over the barrel of the pistol, confused and scared, metallic grey and sharp like the knife he wields. Kensei slowly lowers the gun and takes a long, careful look at him. The kid's not really a kid. Probably mid teens, judging by the lanky limbs and the angle of his jaw – a babyish softness still clinging to him despite the starvation. The kid shifts, scrambling out from underneath the hollow's huge body. A sudden bubble of hysterical laughter erupts from his mouth, followed swiftly by a flood of shocked tears. He pulls his knees to his chest and curls up, shivering. His arm bleeds sluggishly.

Kensei lingers on the fire escape, unsure of his next move. In the time that it's taken him to stow his pistol and survey the kid and the immediate area, someone could have easily taken a pot shot at him. The kid's definitely alone then, he surmises. He takes a calculated step towards the folding ladder on the fire escape, metal platform rattling with the movement. When the kid doesn't move – doesn't even flinch – Kensei descends. His boots hit the metal lid of the dumpster like a roll of thunder overhead, and he winces. He really can't afford to make more noise. The sound seems to startle the kid out of his crying. When Kensei drops from the dumpster to the filthy pavement, he's peeking up at him through his messy hair.

“You bitten?” Kensei asks.

“No,” the kid says, voice shredded and raw. Kensei nods and sweeps his gaze over to the hollow. He studies its face, and is silently relieved that it's not someone he recognises. He crouches down and paws over the body, mindful of the barbs and spikes in its skin. He's not expecting to find anything of use on it, but it pays to be thorough. He plucks out some fish hooks from its massive forearms, and is halfway through untangling the barbed wire when a chorus of hissing moans reach his ears. Time's up. He abandons his search and turns back to the kid. He hasn't moved an inch, but his breathing has slowed and the tears have fully dried. His shivering is violent though.

“Think you can walk?” Kensei asks, and isn't the least bit surprised when the kid shakes his head. “I'll carry you up.” The kid freezes, eyes wide with new fear, and then jerks away and brings up his knife.

“Why?” he demands. Kensei juts his chin back to the alley entrance. Several infected are stumbling their way, arms reaching and mouths drooling bloody ichor. The kid grits his teeth and clutches his knife in a white knuckled fist. “I'll take my chances with them,” he hisses, attempting to stand. Kensei snorts.

“I didn't save you just to watch you get bit,” he scoffs. And before the kid can wrangle up another excuse, Kensei hoists him over his shoulder fireman style, disarming him in the process. The kid yelps and then struggles, spitting and swearing all the way, but Kensei ignores it. The kid weighs absolutely _nothing_. Kensei has little trouble clambering onto the dumpster, and then he hauls himself and the kid up the fire escape. Below, the infected snarl up at them, but then they descend upon the hollow's corpse, and soon the alley is filled with the grotesque, wet sounds of flesh tearing and jaws snapping.

Kensei doesn't stick around to watch.


End file.
